In any case, Little Hawk's situation is well-known to be unbearable, and entirely gone to the dogs. Despite his efforts to catsup by having them mustard regularly, they do not seem to relish his company, and keep nipping his buns. To avoid this he spends much of his time sitting high on a rock onion hill, avoiding becoming hamburger.

In any case, Little Hawks situation is well-known to be unbearable, and entirely gone to the dogs. Despite his efforts to catsup by having them mustard regularly, they do not seem to relish his company, and keep nipping his buns.

Maryann (that Maryann, of Gilligan's Island) showing the world how to boil and peel an Idaho potato

Maryann? truly? If you only knew how many nights I dreamed about ....

ahem....

Interesting that you should bring of the migration of the potato to the High Plateau of Idaho, Rap. I was just reading an article on how the mass migration of the potato from the Northeastern United states to the Northwest is now believed to have been a contributing factor in the extinction of the Great Lakes Fur Dolphins and also of the Hudson River Manatee.

"...after 40 years of playing guitar I can confidently say: "Note that the fingers never leave the hands." " (LH, 11:35 AM)

Come, come, Little Hawk. Are your fingers ON, or OFF? Are you misleading us intentionally, like some shell-game mountebank? Or are you simply avoiding the tiresome effort of looking down at the ends of your hands to see if the frayed bits are worn off or not?

Little Hawk, as usual, is just leaping across whole fields of missing data to promulgate windy and unbalanced confusions, usually scurrilous. For example, at 08:37 Mudcat time this morning I was in my car, driving to work, studiously listening to KPBS in order to maintain my current qualifications as a California Bleeding Heart Tree Hugging Pinko Liberal (CBHTHPL).

I am glad you played your fingers off, Little Hawk--at least you won't have to go through that again.

I'm back! Did you miss me? I've played my fingers off on guitar and also got to see about 2 hours of Allison Krause and her band on a couple of DVDs that a friend had. Very good!

So, Amos....you may swan now, but I think you'll more likely duck tomorrow, and I predict that you will not get to crow at all this week...nor will you be caught robin' the pantry if you know what's good for you!

Amos, you do not understand potatoes. Like most, you think of them as tubers growing on the roots of plants.

NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH!!!

Potatoes are tiny, blind creatures similar to nemotodes which crawl underground searching for a plant's root system upon which to "suckle." The very best plant for this are the various varieties of Solanum tuberosum (or "Tubas of [St. Francis] Solanus" -- the reason for this name is irrelevant here). Potatoes can sense these plants many miles away and will literally bore through mountains to get to them. Once there, they attach themselves to the plant's roots so firmly that the plant literally grows around them and the potato loses it's own identity into that of the plant.

Once, Idaho (for example) was a high, flat plateau stretching from Montana to the Oregon and Washington borders. Early settlers planted Solanum tuberosum (the original settlers lived on camas roots) and attracted the potatoes. This mass migration of potatoes from one place to another caused the soil and rock to collapse, as a sinkhole does when the water below is pumped out. This gave birth to Idaho's mountains. The same happened in Maine and Ireland, where the collapse of the land formed the immense central plain -- were it not for the potato Dublin would be an alpine resort.

Leo, scroll down and look for my link to Maryann (that Maryann, of Gilligan's Island) showing the world how to boil and peel an Idaho potato. A useful tip. MOM has been busy cooking potatoes since she watched it, and we're going to have potato salad for the next month around here. Pass the hard boiled eggs, please. . .

"Franz Rosenzweig's "Understanding the Sick and the Healthy: A View of World, Man, and God." The sickness in question is paralysis, what we would today probably call clinical depression. It is the patient's metaphysical prowess that paralyzes him. It has replaced the common sense that once allowed him to accept ordinary things. He can no longer go to the store for butter because, after all, "the butter remembered, the butter desired, and the butter finally bought, are not the same. They may even be quite different." And yet he is able to make the purchase — or would be able to, if he would just move on.

Rosenzweig writes: "The continuity of life blunts the edge of marveling. Wonder is finally enveloped in the stream of time.""

There's the rub; to remember that time is an arbitrary, a false cover, a flim-flam and a bamboozle, so that you can stay on the cresting edge of wonder and new sight. This belief that change is slow, that newness only comes on the installment plan, that things are as they were instead of as they scintillatingly are, is a morose and terrible pit to lie in. This is something, I believe, that Mom understands instinctively.

It is Thursday morning, Mom, here in the land of Granola, where we live on crystal spring water and organic fruits and nuts. The days continue on; it is ironic how hard you strive to bring things to order, to normal operation, and when you have them balanced on the edge of the leading edge of time, just so, so they can go forward with normalcy and coherence, the whole thing becomes much less inspiring to maintain.

Little Hawk, are you getting overheated in Ontario? Rapaire, have you been ordered to exercises? Stilly, what does the University really believe it is doing?

I wish BWL were back. He understands so much; he would know what to do.

Hey, Mom! I went and got the stitches out of my shoulder. Yes, it hurt and I didn't think they still cauterized bleeding with a hot iron, but.... Anyway, I found that they had cut off the end of my collarbone! Yup, just cut 'er right off. That of course, simply confirmed my suspicions that bits of my DNA is being collected in a Secret Government Place where they store the perfection of DNA in case they have to clone perfect people in a hurry.

And then I dreamt I'd lost my ship at sea And swept up in the storm, slammed among the broken spars, Was hit on thehead, and taken by salt waters at last.

Finding this broken skull and drowned flesh beneath My standards, I left it, and drifted The length and depth of the Pacific, trying to understand.

I found at last a settling place, descending Into the form of a blue whale calf, new-borning And felt it was something I could be. So I kept it.

Imagine the learning! How deep is down, how often up, Blowing with precision, spy-hopping, how to fight For love and sing to the clan at depth. Not an easy course.

Especially the singing--in my dream I kept remembering the Shirelles, And wanted to sing Doo Wop to the blues around me, oooo-wah. But the elders butted me and the rest ignored my trying Blue Moon.

My mother loved me, though, and knowing that was enough. I practiced using my voice, alone on the 100 fathom line, And sang remembered pops in whale tones. I got good, too!

I even mastered the Shhh in Sh-Boom, a foreign sound. And When the time came I had to be my own whale, I could do a dozen numbers from the Fifties. So

I cruised the oceans looking for a research team with Microphones in the water and when I found them, Of course I sang Dream and Santa Catalina, in dark whale tones.

It freaked them out, of course, and then they lured me to some bay And I would breach and bellow The Book of Love or Donna Octaves below "C", splashing down and rising again for the chorus.

Crowds in small boats and large bobbed out to hear it! It was a wonder! How could a whale learn such old tunes? I was a smash, a blue baritone hit. But after a while people began to say it wasn't that good.

They were annoyed because I wouldn't pronounce The words as well as the originals they loved, And became disenchanted with me. Attendance fell. So I left,

Went back to the deeps, started my own family In bottomless waters where I sing To the calves as they grow, about the Book of Love.

In my usual heedless manner, I interrupt this program to say Sum Yung Sun is helping his Dad celebrate his 64th birthday by attending a Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson/John Mellencamp concert at the Durham Bull's Ballpark tonight.

Hope it are good. I only saw Dylan once, about 25 years ago. It were bad, but that could have been in part because of the accoustics of the gym at Duke, and not entirely because Dylan obviously wished he were anywhere else.